And The Beat Goes On
by Galaxy-Soledad
Summary: Somewhere in the universe, a family with 2.5 children, a loving housewife, and a bread-winning father is called normal. Not here. new chapters up
1. Ladadadadee, Ladadadadaaaa…

**Rating:** PG-13**  
Author's Notes**: SPOILERS for the PeaceKeeper Wars mini. This fic was previously posted on Kansas, it is seen here with generous revisions, and now with beta! Thanks Yuna Lesca!  
**Disclaimer**: Farscape – Fun to Play with. Not to Own…cause then you have to deal with copyrights and production costs and deadlines. In other words, NOT MINE.

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**And the Beat Goes On**

"They say the gods walked on stars, but we have never walked the stars, we can only pass by them." The Nebari emissary pivoted sharply, synthetic boots clicking against the stone floor. His opaque eyes traveled from planetary ambassador to ambassador as they floated about him.

They coursed around the room, on domes that flowed on waterways chiseled into the floor. A mimicry of the system's various planetary obits, with the ambassadors seated upon their respective world.

The emissary had been speaking with the system's council for a good arn, and had been dancing around the issues like Luxan fingers on a shilquin.

The Nebari paced on a higher stationary dome in the center of the room—a depiction of the system's only sun. He rocked his head crabwise before continuing, "While we would happily share our cure for the virus that afflicts your people, we are not gods, so it is not unexpected that we desire something comparable in return."

"And what do your people pose?" One of the system's diplomats, a gaunt looking species whose skin dripped down from his bones in small globules of skin, asked as he floated past the imitation sun.

"Embrace the Nebari."

"A treaty?"

A more skeptical ambassador interrupted, "We are already in negotiations with the Peacekeepers and Scarre—"

Sensing his gravity over the council waning, the Nebari cut the ambassador short, "Full rights as Nebari citizens, our protection…and a cure. In return, your observance of our laws."

The Nebari's shifty eyes passed over each representative, assuring himself that he had their attention before continuing.

"The Peacekeepers? Oh, they'll offer you everything…except peace." His voice crescendoed, "Let The War speak for those races! Leave half the Galaxy in chaos, then retreat to their own realms—you'd find a better ally in the virus. A treaty with the Nebari…? You have much to gain."

Another diplomat leaned back in his chair and added, "I am…_curious_ to know how the Nebari came about this cure. Suddenly a bizarre disease that defies scrutiny crops up, yet—you somehow have a treatment. It all seems a little…"

"Suspicious?" The Nebari supplemented, amusement underlining his tone. He had been expecting this.

"Convenient."

The emissary's eyes narrowed, "I admit it does seem to be. If I was in your positions, I would be equally distrustful. Unfortunately for us, we don't have the luxury for skepticism. So, I will tell you forthright. We have previously encountered this infection, centuries ago. We were able to synthesize an antitoxin—and now, in light of this new outbreak, we wish to share it. You see. You have nothing to fear. We want to help."

Another ambassador from one of the fringe obits stood, and addressed the emissary, "And what of those who won't be," she paused, evaluating her next word with caution, "…helped?"

"Then, we must oblige their spirits," the Nebari paused, savoring the words, "for the greater good."

-

Unknown to the council members or the Nebari emissary, a lone Leviathan had just existed starburst on the outermost edge of the system.


	2. Hail Aeryn Sun, Lord of Flies Yo

She could still remember the first time John had attempted to describe a drum. Largely un-translated, infused with small two or three word phases that didn't seem to fit the conversation, and more confusing overall then her original query. It was basically a hollowed out cylinder, with a dead animal hide stretched over an opening that primitive humans beat the dren out of. The construction materials had since changed, but its operation hadn't.

Apparently it's music.

She made some last minute checks on the Prowler's controls, as the familiar pounding of blood in her ears gradually became more rhythmic.

Aeryn's oculars scanned and enlarged the system's various local resistance craft as her focus shifted. Charred with pulse energy burns, the majority of them looked more worthy of a debris pile than combat. But at least they were giving it their best shot.

They faced a host of Nebari Gliders—sleek, pristine Nebari Gliders—part of a unit assigned to the one of the numerous cruisers that were escorting emissary vessels in just about every sector this side of the galaxy. Escorting—and enforcing.

Aeryn focused on a random Glider, her oculars zooming her perspective in on the two-manned craft. Forward cannons that the pilot probably controlled, and a gunner turret that looked like it had complete mobility of horizontal and vertical-axis.

The fighters floated in space, peaceful almost.

_ Waonn'tag_. It's a Luxan word, which cannot be satisfactorily defined; it has to be experienced. In all honesty, it's really just an advanced apology for killing each other more then anything else.

A single pulse blast, from a Tragan mercenary vessel, coursed its way across no-man's-land, just missing its Nebari target.

Waonn'tag came to an abrupt end.

Aeryn's prowler descended from its ceiling position, as she looked for a partner.

One Glider broke off from the main unit and gave chase.

Aeryn's world spun as she rolled, the Glider's forward pulse fire warbling softly as it shot past the cockpit's shielding.

Hammon side brakes lit, and swung the prowler around nose to tail, like some trained beast rounding an obstacle in a timed course. Crosshairs searching. Trigger—

'_Dren!'_

The gunner fired.

She reacted.

The shot almost-but-not-quite kissed her treblin side.

That was too close. The prowler jackknifed upwards. Nose up and engines on maximum burn. Upward, climb upward, and freefall—

'_Make them think you've made an error, make them think you've stalled. What did John call it? …Playing possum.'_

The Glider still held the chase, trembling as Mannik creatures do just before they die from work exhaustion. Aeryn got lucky (and not for the first time); turned out the two-man glider was less maneuverable.

Aeryn's prowler mimicked the engine failure perfectly. The fighter grasped for further altitude before giving out and gently spiraling around to coast lifeless in space.

The Glider's gunner swept around to blast the Sebacean ship to vapors.

Aeryn focused on timing. Wait too little and you're dead. Wait too long and you're dead. Wait till the waiting just about kills you, and then at least nothing's guaranteed.

'_NOW!'_

She didn't wait to catch the Glider in her ocular's crosshairs. She swung the ship around and opened fire immediately after the prowler turned, sweeping across space she hoped would be her target's broadside. The pulse blasts connected. The pilot was dead and the ship itself was crippled. Perfect plan.

Or at least it would have. But when your part of the Crichton family, you're part of an infamous track record with plans.

She _really_ shouldn't have forgotten about the gunner's ability to spin on two axis.

Aeryn said something foul. Only John would have got it.

Proximity alert blared. No time. Absolutely no time.

Somewhere in the back of her skull, a metal-on-metal voice that seemed to crop up whenever she rather _not_ hear a metal-on-metal-voice, asked with a detached sort of cadence, "Why is there never enough time?"

'_Oh god.'_

Incognizant hands flew up and fastened her helmet with a sharp resonant snap. A twist of a pressurized seal, and her suit's oxygen flow began.

The pulse blast hit. Treblin side engines blew. A half-melted piece of the Prowler's sweptblade blew into the fighter's hub, piercing the controls. Sparks flew out and fizzled on Aeryn's body armor. She distantly, with macabre fascination (and amusement), noticed the blade had missed her right limb by less then a dench.

She slammed on the chair's eject.

The hissing sound reminded her of a time she had stepped in a nest of Vitubian vipers; or it did, before the vacuum of space silenced everything.

Count back from twenty.

…19…18…17…

She had a queasy feeling where her gut should have been; her stomach hadn't caught up with the rest of her body. The sensation was so overpowering, at first didn't notice she had ejected upside down, and was drifting away from the battle.

16…15…14…

As a Peacekeeper, you never lived to make a mistake twice; the first time often killed you. Well, she died to learn this lesson.

13…12…11…

Aeryn pulled a dirk from a sheath strapped outside her boot.

10…

A soundless rip as she slashed herself free of the harness. Suddenly, she was floating a few denches away from the chair.

9…

A quick moment and the dirk returned to its case.

8…7…6…

She lolled around and pulled the chair towards her. Clinging to it, and digging heels into the seat.

5…

Silent snap of released pulse pistols at the left hip and right shoulder hostler.

4, 3…

Two pulse blasts to counteract her movement, and right the chair.

2…

'_Tense your muscles and prepare for one hezmana of a jolt.'_

1.

The descent breaks ignited. The chair rocketed upwards. Aeryn crouched, resting her brow on the headrest. In the interim she returned her second pulse pistol to its holster. After a few more microts, she pulled herself away, and looked upward.

The distant light of the system's sun reflected across her combat visor, blinding her. Aeryn blinked furiously, she couldn't waste microts. Her eyes readjusted…to a pulse blast coursing her way.

Time to go.

Left arm snapped outward. Joints popped from recoil as she squeezed the trigger, like—or the opposite of—the opening of the unit strength exercises she did as a child (John called it "tug-of-war" on the Command Carrier). She let go of the chair and let the inertia of the blast drive her. She rolled. Floating on her back, she started to drift. Aeryn brought her pistol up, thumbs interlocked around the gun's grip. Fired. Her body snapped, as she was thrown backwards.

Aeryn continued the staccato-esque gunshots. Taking time to orient herself, she reached for her second pulse pistol. Aeryn's arm fell perpendicular to her body, and her knees locked. One shot and she was upright.

Weapons firing in tandem, Aeryn corkscrewed upwards. A trail of pulse blasts spiraled beneath her, propelling her higher. Fighters became thicker as she rose, more concentrated. She stopped.

If she hadn't been focusing other things, Aeryn might have mused at the irony of skyjacking a Nebari ship.

The Glider was bearing straight for her. Not the least bit interested in a lone Peacekeeper, and a shipless one at that.

Aeryn reached out, palm open. She pressed her eyes shut just as she caught the side of the ship.

She screamed. Even if no one knew—she _screamed_.

Right arm was torn from its socket. Several ribs were broken, she was sure of that. It hurt to breathe. Aeryn grit her teeth. She turned on her suit's magnetics, and felt her body clank against the craft. Her bones didn't like that much either. She slowly made her way up the cowling, body protesting every move, every breath.

The pilot veered the Glider up and down a futile attempt to dislodge her.

She reached the cockpit's shielding.

The Nebari looked a little terrified.

Aeryn once again removed the dirk from her boot. She brought the dagger down, stabbing over and over, cracking the shield. She tightened her hold, adjusting to the increased pressure against her suit, as oxygen began flowing out of the screen's fractures.

She struck one last time.

The final punch of oxygen as it escaped the cabin almost caused her to lose her grip. Shattered remnants of the screen scraped against her armor. She held fast.

Aeryn leaned into the cockpit.

The dirk raked through the Nebari's gray flesh, and before the laceration could be completed, the vacuum of space began to rip the cerulean blood from his body, spilling upwards, smattering across her Cimmerian armor.

The Nebari tore his focus away from the wound to look up at the dark visor, dappled with his own blood.

The blade slipped under the Nebari's harness. There was a moment after when nothing happen.

A moment later, something did.

The Nebari was snapped backward, vertebrae crunching as his spine splintered; his body ripped through the puncture in to cockpit's shield.

With much effort, Aeryn swung herself into the now empty cabin.

The Glider's gunner didn't get the chance to register that the pilot was dead, before Aeryn released a lever that she guessed (correctly) was the turret's manual eject.

Aeryn grabbed the remnants of the harness and crudely tied herself down. She quickly checked the controls. Nebari design—how hard could it be? Flip that switch, press that button…

'_This should be down…'_

The Glider flew upwards.

Okay…maybe not.

The jerky bobbing of her craft in every which direction would have been so much more amusing—if it hadn't been making her the fattest target on the field.

A volley of pulse blasts narrowly missed her, one passing _through_ the turret's cradle.

It was time to _cut bait,_ as John would put it. Little more to be done anyway. If she left now, _hopefully_ Moya would be ready for Starburst.

Aeryn started smacking random controls.

Thrusters ignited. Aeryn's body whipped back in the Glider's chair, shooting pain through her torso. Her ribs cursed her, her shires, and every recreation partner she'd ever known.

_ Ouch_.

Aeryn pushed the pain aside. Grabbed the controls, and wrenched them towards what to all the galaxy seemed like empty space.

But she knew better.

With her oculars pushing her vision as far as it could, Aeryn could just make out a dark shadow against the inky void of space that marked home.

She began limping back to Moya's waiting hanger, squeezing as much energy as possible into engines.

Was she flying as slow as it felt?

No, she had closed the gap between her and Moya considerably. A few more motras and she's be home…

One of the glider's engines whirred down. Aeryn felt the ship drop from the lost of power and found she could barely hold her trajectory. Looked like the ship had been damaged prior to her stealing it and was flying on emergency power alone.

She was so close to home, if she could just make it to the docking web…

And then it hit her. By now, she was already in range of the docking web, except she wasn't in a prowler, and any comms hailing could reveal their position. There was no way for Pilot to know it was her.

She was going to have to fly in manually.

Aeryn groaned, and called on all her strength to pull the craft up. She would clear it—because she had to clear it.

The glider clipped the entrance to the hanger, flipping it over like crindar in a game of chance.

Frelling coins.

The wings scraped across the floor, and metal groaned as is tore and bent under the force of the crashing fighter.

A less then graceful landing.

Moya thrummed in pain. The glider flipped one last time before friction slowed it to a halt.

From a makeshift blind of crates, John and Chiana leveled their weapons on the semi-crushed glider. They could just make out the movement of the craft's pilot as she struggled to free herself from the wreckage.

They charged their weapons.

The armored pilot half-fell, half-hoisted herself from the glider and stumbled to the floor.

"Don't, move!" Chiana yelled with as much bravado as she could call up (which was a great deal actually).

The soldier did as commanded.

For a microt, no one did a thing.

The blood rolled down the pilot's armor and dripped to the floor.

Aeryn grabbed for the clasps on her helmet, releasing it and yanking it from her head. She stood, swaying slightly, eyes unfocused, body ready to give in to unconsciousness.

John whispered more to himself then anyone, "Damn baby, God is your co-pilot."

Aeryn collapsed.


	3. Mummy, Daddy?

**Author's Notes: **Sorry for the long wait between updates. I'm a rather slow writer…something I maybe should have thought about before posting ;). Anyway. Thank you for all the wonderful and helpful reviews here and at Kansas, and I hope you enjoy. Reviews welcomed and appreciated.

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**Chapter 3: Mummy, Daddy? Can I Have A Peanut Butter And Microglobular Sandwich?**

Somewhere in the universe, a family with 2.5 children, a loving housewife, and a bread-winning father is called normal.

Not here.

Here, normalcy is a shoot-'em-up mother who comes home from work an inch away from death, a dad known by the galaxy for destroying large armies/entire planets, and a five year old boy in a seven year old body whose closest thing to a pet dog is a singing robocleaner.


	4. If You Can’t Get Rid Of The Family Skele...

**Chapter 4: If You Can't Get Rid Of The Family Skeleton You Might As Well Make It Dance**

John Crichton leaned back in his chair, a pair of disassembled pulse pistols sprawled out on the table in front of him. He turned the grimed cloth in his hand, thought about it, turned it to a clean spot, thought about it again, then thought about it a little more—before finally picking up the unusually cold pistol frame to wipe it down.

A goofy shit-eating grin extended across John's face as he looked over to his young son, who was diligently copycatting his actions, cleaning the other stripped pistol.

John put down his work and ruffed D'argo's short dark brown hair. The boy decided that the gun was clean enough, and placed it back on the table, before tossing the hair that had fallen (or more accurately, John had mussed) into his face back.

'_Looks like his mom when he does that._' John absently thought.

Five years had gone by, so quickly. Most of it on that greenhouse asteroid a hop skip and a transport away from the Gammak base, or where the base had been, getting the Eidolons prepped for a housewarming. But looking at his son, size and motor skills for a child years older than his true age, reminded him how quickly. He was losing the best part of D'argo's—or of any future children's—lives.

He needed to stop thinking about it. So he resumed cleaning the pistol's barrel, and let his mind wander back to Aeryn.

_Aeryn_. She was in the adjacent room, still sleeping off the fight. With Chi's help they had carried her to quarters and stripped her armor. John had washed her of the sweat and blood, and (in absence of Noranti) did his best to patch her up. She had officially scared the living crap out of him when she collapsed in the hanger. For a moment he thought—

Whenever he did anything incredibly stupid or risky, or both (mostly both), Aeryn would always find time to remind him that she couldn't imagine raising D'argo on her own if anything should ever happened to him, but whenever _she_ pulled shit like this…John was fairly certainly he wouldn't do so well either.

----

A room over, Aeryn opened her eyes—and quickly snapped them shut when the light seared them. Moya's illumination should never feel that bright. She opened her eyes again, slower, taking time to reacquaint herself with the lighting.

Aeryn slowly propped herself up, careful not to disturb her sore ribs. She tossed the golden coverlet aside, finding that someone had dressed her whole torso with white bandages while she was out. John and Chiana she guessed.

She eased further out of bed, taking her time standing up, smoothing her leathers as she went. An old, soft pair that John knew she loved best and was the most comfortable. From the next room she could just make out the muffled conversation between her mate and young son. Something about Muppets. Maybe. She didn't really know.

Aeryn rolled her head. The cracking vertebrae sounded more like a piano key flourish then the bones that supported one's head.

As she walked towards the door, more and more of the conversation began to filter through. She grabbed one of John's old black Ts that was lying in heap next to the door, and tugged it over her head as she exited their room. Aeryn crossed the corridor, stopping short of entering the room where John and D'argo sat cleaning her pulse pistols. Or at least _had_ been cleaning. Now they seemed more focused on shoving each other back and forth for no discernable reason.

She leaned against the entry's frame, content, watching as John leaned over and pinched D'argo's nose between his middle and forefinger.

"Hah. Got your nose." John teased.

D'argo lunged forward, taking up the game, "Give it back!"

D'argo crawled all over his father trying to retrieve his stolen 'nose', but John kept his hand always just out of his son's reach. D'argo pulled himself up by digging the heel of his free palm into John's eye (much to Crichton's dismay) and managed to wrap his small fingers halfway around his father's the closed fist, hollering with victory.

John tilted his head, freeing his one eye. "Shhh, shh!" He managed to gasp out between laughs, "We'll wake mom."

Through the giggling, and coarse laugher, D'argo miraculously noticed his mother was not only already up, but leaning in the doorway and watching them.

Fears of waking his mother dispelled, D'argo opened his mouth to call out to her, but he was cut short when Aeryn brought a finger up to her lips. D'argo took the hint, though with some mild confusion, and said nothing indicate she presence.

John, pleasantly oblivious to this exchange, pulled D'argo into a bear hug before helping him climb back to his chair. Once situated, D'argo resumed cleaning the pistols, while John did the same.

Aeryn decided it was time to leave her perch and slunk behind John, placing a hand between his shoulder blades. John gave a brief start at the contact. It was odd, that her ability to sneak up on him could be comforting to them both.

John let Aeryn's hand melt into him; and felt the warmth as it jumped from his body to spread though her fingers.

"They were frozen." John explained with surprising brevity as the component he just cleaned slid across the table.

She guessed as much. They had probably already cleaned and polished her armor. Unfortunate. She rather enjoyed performing those activities on her own. A ritual she had developed over the years to help her wind down from battle that served as much as a cleansing of her equipment as it was for her own self. But she understood and appreciated their gesture nonetheless.

"Hey!" Chiana's somewhat curt voice crackled through the comms. "You feks heading down anytime soon? Or am I supposed to do this all myself?"

"We're on our way Pip." John nonchalantly called backed. He turned to the rest of the family. "Shall we?"

It was about this time that D'argo realized he had been sitting down, and very quietly too, for an extraordinarily long time. He whooped his agreement before dashing straight out the door.

One of those rare and beloved laughs escaped Aeryn Sun's lips as she and John watched their son remember his infamous hyperactivity. "Let's."


End file.
